Corn Maze
by Succulentism
Summary: The entire gang manages to be persuaded into a winter night of lolly-gagging in a corn field. Will they make it out sane?


_**Author's Note:**__ A bit of explanation: This was an old story my younger brain conjured up back in the year of 2011. After much consideration, I chose to re-upload this without a single edit or touch-up, because I think it's important for us as artists to look back on our earnest work and see how far we've come. I am excited to post my modern-day works of fanfiction very soon, but until then, hopefully you will accept this. The girl who wrote this piece had a very big imagination – inspired by the show itself – and I hope you'll give her a chance, because the woman who is speaking to you today could not exist without her. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy my old little story. :)_

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><p><strong>Corn Maze<strong>

Buford's bottom lip twitched at its slightest. He scuffed his sneaker against the van tire once more as his lifelong friends continued to waste away the precious minutes in the parking lot. His eyes grew rounder and rounder from the aggravation of his impatience. The girls taking their slow, sweet time in preparation was understandable. Fine. Women would be women and all that. But he then shifted his pupils in the males' direction, making the mistake of placing any more faith in them.

He was, once again, sorely disappointed. Phineas and Ferb had recently acquired an absolutely inexplicable interest in babies. They each had outlined, and then sketched, and then re-done the sketches, and then painted, with painstaking accuracy, two rather horrifying baby faces on paper bag surfaces. The brothers had then found a gallon of chicken fat-_somehow_-and blown balloons to paste the faces upon them. Ferb had instantly taken to his baby. It was perfect, in his quiet opinion. Phineas, however, was considerably pickier. The teenager had popped the balloon, deciding it wasn't the appropriate "size", baby-wise, and had undergone the creation process four more times, in the presence and growing frustration of his friends.

It had probably all started with family planning class. Or health class. Whatever. It wasn't as if the German boy ever showed up to know what those periods were for anyway.

Next to the redhead, who was now inspecting a cradled Phineas Junior the Fifth's makeshift ears while sitting crisscross on the gravel, knelt Django with his laptop. He was involved in some sort of online art contest crisis, and every beep emitted from the portable computer indicated to the onlookers that he'd lost a place on the illustrious list yet again. His eyes were slanted in attention, his expression intense.

_Beep._

He typed with fervor.

_Beep._

The typing grew more rapid.

_Beep._

Fingers flew on the keyboard.

_Beep._

Buford sighed and turned to Baljeet, his last hope. Maybe, just maybe, for once in their insufferable lives, the Indian would be the agreeable, fun one.

No such luck. Baljeet was cooing over Phineas's shoulder, admiring the stupid balloon thing.

The girls weren't much help. Isabella and Ginger were leaning against the back doors of the van, exchanging makeup and jewelry. They'd examine their compact mirrors, adjust their looks, murmur pleasantly about themselves, and then, with one glance toward the other, take it all off and switch. The whole procedure befuddled Buford. Who cared about all the eye shadow shades of pink in existence? He certainly didn't, and he couldn't see why they did. The only question he found to be more irritating was "To sparkle or not to sparkle?" What was the _point?_

To his alarm, the sun was slowly and gradually descending behind the buildings of the metropolis. The seven of them were the only ones still hanging around outside the high school building. Buford fretted. He knew his friends. If they kept this up, they'd never leave the parking lot, let alone reach their destination.

"YO!" he finally burst out. Everyone, thankfully, looked up from their trifling affairs. He rubbed his hands together, his fingers itching to grab the vehicle keys. "Are we goin' or _aren't_ we?"

_Beep._

"NOOOOOO!" Django screamed in despair. His glared furiously at his friend. "I was about to make it! I was about to reach the top ten! Now I'm going to have to wait until _next_ year! This is all your fault!"

The thicker teenager shrugged impassively. "Aw, come on. It ain't that big of a deal, man."

"Um, yes. Yes, it _was_." Django pushed the laptop away in anger and stood up from the grit. "Whereas your dumb little field trip _isn't_."

"Deal with it, Da Vinci. We get one night to do this. One. Night. And I ain't gonna pass it up like all those other years."

"Buford, we're too old for this nonsense," Isabella half-moaned.

"Yeah," her Asian best friend chimed in. "I mean, seriously. All these cosmetics, and not one shedding of light for anyone to notice. Why the heck am I even going?"

_Baljeet_ was the word that came to mind. But Buford knew better than to actually say it, especially after that cafeteria incident from the month before. He didn't need a near-death experience reprise.

"Come on, dudes! It's our last year!" he looked frantically at them all. "We're graduatin' next summer! We ain't gonna have another chance to do this!"

Isabella pulled her body away from the large car and shoved her hands into her pockets. She spoke monotonously. "Why is this so important to you, anyway?"

Good question. Why was it?

The large, tough boy could hardly perceive himself to be a sentimental being. On most occasions, he dreaded being caught in the middle of a teary-eyed, group hug moment. He also abhorred cameras. (When he thought about it now, that was possibly a factor in his dislike for Irving as well.) Nonetheless, this certain outing played a role of significance in his life, childish as it was. There were a thousand-if not a million-of things he'd found himself in the middle of whenever the American optimist and British introvert decided to take action. If medals were given for such adventures, Buford would have needed to expand his home and storage by now. He'd shrunk in size. He'd circumnavigated the globe. He'd flown to space. He'd met Santa.

Considering the weight of their experiences, he'd just automatically expected that they would do this one small thing in comparison. It was part of growing up; a rite of passage from youth to adulthood. Well, in Danville, anyway.

But it had never been done after all. Once they'd reached high school, the friends had grown apart. Distanced due to homework, clubs, and all sorts of melodrama. Looking back, it was all so stupid. Now that they were seniors, Buford just wanted to go back and redo everything. In his heart of hearts, the place that no one, not even his own mother, had explored, he knew that he was wistful. As single individuals in a hectic world, they'd all accomplished many feats and reaped what they'd sown. Heck, Django was already admitted to one of the highest performing arts universities in the country for the upcoming year. Thanks to an internship and a few pulled strings, Ferb was well on his way to becoming a future face in the United States government. And Baljeet was already a part-time worker in NASA. Phineas...Buford glanced at him mid-thought…was obviously planning to become a very industrious, hard-working…uh, father.

As individuals, yes. They were successful. But as a group? Negative. They'd never even fulfilled this one, simple, kid activity. He twisted his lip in determination. Tonight, the final night of fall, the final year of adolescence, they were doing it. Oh, yes. They _were_ doing it.

He addressed a quiet, waiting Isabella, and indirectly spoke to the rest of the gang as well.

"Just is. And _don't_ keep proddin'." He pointed a finger at her. "Ya know the drill. Actions first, questions later." With pleasure, he finally grabbed the keys from his pocket and jangled them in view, one hand already reaching for the door handle.

"Buford calls driver's seat! Who's callin' shot gun?"

_**tttttttttttttt**_

The group piled out of their transportation just as the darkest traces of dusk began to settle in. The ladies clutched onto their purses, the brothers clutched onto their balloons, and Baljeet carefully pried the laptop out of Django's hands, placing it underneath the vehicle's passenger seat and locking the door behind him.

Buford threw his keys onto the chair in excitement and jumped out of the driver's side, slamming it. He grinned at his friends. This was truly happening. Finally.

"Buford, this place is deserted," Isabella complained. "What if some homeless creeper runs into Ginger or me and decides to attack us?"

He rolled his eyes. "Isabella. Sheesh. There are four of us dudes. Two o' you. Aren't you supposed to be scout-crocodile-wrestler-ninjas or somethin'? And feminists, and all that junk?"

She shrugged. "Just trying to cover everything before we proceed into this idiocy."

"Actually," Baljeet chose that moment to speak up, "it is not _entirely_ desolate. The entrance admitter is right over there."

They all glanced to their right, where a presumed college student leaned against an arched entryway built from stacked hay. He was texting on a cell phone, earphones plugged in. Aside from him were a few porta-potties and a table leaning crookedly. Flashlights, a cooler, and a donation basket took up its space. The ground was littered with cigarette butts.

"Do we need money?" Django wondered. "I didn't bring any…"

The boys searched their pockets, expressions abashed. None of them had given it thought. Isabella and Ginger exchanged a knowing look and whipped out two twenty-dollar bills.

"Uh"-Buford turned to his peers and lifted his shoulders-"yeah, guess that works."

The admitter looked startled as they approached him. He ripped out the earplugs, and the teenagers could hear a clamorous, crashing drum beat. He tucked away his phone and straightened himself from the hay, trying to appear professional.

Isabella's eyes traveled to his chest. His name tag had been scratched out and replaced with an obscenity atop it. Hm. She withdrew by natural reaction. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Ferb walking casually to the table, taking three flashlights.

"Hello," the stranger's voice sounded raspy. "How many?"

"Seven," she said softly, trying her best not to grimace. His breath was almost unbearable.

He pocketed their money and never offered change. He plainly gestured toward the entrance and plugged his music back in.

"Nice to meet you, too," she muttered as they walked on.

They all stood at the orbicular open hole before them. No light, no scenery. Just rows and rows of lofty corn stalks. Thick gray clouds smothered the moon above. The sky was a tenebrous black. The rounded convex brought back their attention, beckoning them.

Buford poked the girls at their sides. "Ladies _first_."

Ginger rolled her eyes. "You're so immature."

Ferb handed the females a light to share. He then turned to give one to Baljeet and Django. They accepted it, and he silently lifted one up to Buford.

"No way, man. I'm gonna tough it." He crossed his arms, already looking thrilled.

"Suit yourself," the Brit replied calmly. He held it for Phineas.

The gang stepped in and began their journey on the threshold.

_**tttttttttttttt**_

"Honestly, though. Who _died_?" Isabella ran a hand through her hair, knotted by the thinner columns within the corn maze. "It's so depressing in here. I see why we never tried it as kids."

No one responded. Heavy breathing could be heard as they attempted to keep up with her. Baljeet kept tripping.

"Everything is the same. Identical rows. Identical stalks. It's like a backyard for the cuckoos."

Something could be heard snapping. More and more corn swung into their direction. Her makeup was probably ruined by now. She closed her eyes as her face was slapped again.

"Who _designed_ this field?" her voice went up a pitch. "They probably forgot what they were doing and started planting corn, helter-skelter. I bet they got lost themselves, and they never found their way out."

"Maybe _they're_ the dead ones," Ginger flashed the ground before them. One of the guys gave a short, half-suppressed laugh.

The Mexican-Jewish girl veered to the left, everyone following shortly behind. She elbowed her best friend's ribs. "Hardee har."

"Isabella," Phineas panted from the rear end of the group, "don't you think we've taken this route before?"

She came to an abrupt halt at this idea. Everyone crashed to their front in a domino chain. Only she remained standing as her hands found her hips and her eyes glowered at the sky. All was silent for a good three seconds.

"SEE?" She spun around to meet her friends, all lying on the ground in a heap. "There's no rhyme or reason at all to this maze!"

"Well, it's great that _you've_ been to a maze that actually makes sense, Isabella," Buford grunted, deadpan. "Ya know what? I think it's my turn to lead."

Somewhere in the dark, Django moaned. "I still can't believe I lost that contest. I was so _close_ this year. But I gave it up, and for what? A kiddie maze?"

Buford whirled around to him in annoyance, raising a hand toward the enveloping yellow walls. "Do ya even _see_ the length of these stalks? Didn't ya read the memo? They were planted for ages five and up, man! Five and up!"

The artist squirmed. "Oh, joy. 'And up.' _How_ did I ever think that we didn't qualify?"

Baljeet lowered the flashlight to his chin and illuminated his facial features. "Okay. I believe this situation calls for some uplifting stories."

"I've got one," Isabella quickly replied. "Ahem." She reached for his light, and he pulled it away. She thrust her hand out again, and he protectively hugged it to his chest. She groaned loudly and used her own.

"Once upon a time"-she cast her eyes briefly on the others to ensure she had their utmost attention before continuing-"there was an idiot named Buford."

"Story time's over," the subject of her narrative proclaimed, snatching her own flashlight away from her.

"Hey! Interruptions are rude and ugly!"

"So are you. We can't fix the world, can we?"

Right at the opportune time for her to strike the side of his head, a few crows cawed piercingly, not too far from their standing point. They sprung from the stalks, some sable feathers getting caught and flying out in different directions ubiquitously. Another cloud came over the moon, further darkening the atmosphere. Without realizing it, several of the teenagers shuddered.

"Uh, I think we should start coverin' more ground," Buford suggested in a low voice. He fidgeted. "We can get to the ending and then pull an all-nighter at my house. It might help if we split up."

Isabella nodded, even though no one could see her directly without the flashing beam. "I agree. Ginger?"

She turned to her left side, expecting her Asian friend's face to smile agreeably in the curtained moonlight. To Isabella's slight concern, she wasn't standing right next to her. The young woman turned her head toward the boys, but all she could make out were shadows.

"Um, very funny, guys. Now which one of you stole my girl?" Logic told her it couldn't have been Buford due to his proximity, so Isabella zeroed in on the next most likely suspect.

"Baljeet, step away. I know she's behind you."

When the Indian's head only appeared to shake back and forth, she stole back her light from Buford and shone it directly into his face.

"This isn't _funny_, Baljeet. Where's Ginger?"

He looked troubled. "I…don't…know. I was almost certain she was standing by your side."

She blinked, her mind registering and re-registering what he'd just said. Was he for real?

"Oh no," she whispered. "Ginger?"

Only silence met her call. She tried again, her voice slightly cracking.

"GINGER?"

Baljeet stuck his hands out on each side of his mouth and joined in. "GINGER!"

The other boys readily succored, assisting the now very worried teens. "On three: one, two, three-GIIIIIIIINGEEEEEER!"

Another crow let out a cackling noise, and then no sound was heard. Isabella startled Buford by grabbing his shirt and pulling him forward violently.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Buford winced and pushed her off. He turned to the others helplessly. "So…what do we do now?"

In the end, they went through with their original plan for the evening and split up in pairs. Phineas and Ferb went back the way they came from, Buford and Isabella journeyed onward, and Django and Baljeet were left to search from a fork in the middle. Once the teams had departed, the Hindu boy realized the weight of their situation. They were alone, and a member of their group was lost. He spoke first.

"I propose we go left."

Arms crossed, Django rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. And I was about to suggest we go right."

"Uh…" Baljeet peeked at the right side. Was it his imagination, or was that row a bit scarier than his chosen row? The corn towered higher, and crows perched on the stalks. Rustling on the ground could be heard, and the entire column was shadowed by obscurity. "Are you sure? I read in some statistics somewhere that women tend to be led off on the corner they were standing on. She was on the left"-

"That only applies to street corners," the artist mumbled. "We're in a corn field. Look, I don't want us to stand here all night arguing. Let's just go right."

Baljeet hesitated. "Um, well, yes, of course; lingering in a single place would be of no purpose to us or Ginger, but supposing she'd been taken from the _left_ side and not the right-hypothetically speaking-we would have wasted time and energy exploring the right, and"-

"Dude. The same goes for vice versa." Django's foot began tapping. He was already in an unpleasant mood, and this predicament wasn't helping him in the least.

"_Ye-es,_" Baljeet stressed the word, "but either way, the left side _looks_ like Ginger walked through it." He swallowed as silence overtook him.

His friend stared at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding, man? It _looks_ like she walked through it? What, does it look like she was tap dancing and singing show tunes, too?"

Baljeet was growing increasingly desperate. "Who's to say we should log that possibility out of our minds?"

Django squinted thoughtfully. "Baljeet, are you afraid?"

The Indian teen's brown orbs widened in horror. "Afraid? Me? Fearing corn? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha! Good one, you joker!" He slapped his peer's back and wavered on his feet, back and forth. He cleared his throat.

"That laugh was so fake." Django shook his head. "Look, dude, it's _okay_ to be scared. Ginger's disappeared, and I'm scared for her too."

Baljeet wrinkled his nose and looked down. His friend sighed.

"Okay. I'll take the right. You take the left. Only a single row will be separating us. We'll meet halfway, alright?"

"I…"

"We've wasted enough time already. See you on the other side."

"But, Djang"-

The American flipped his flashlight back on, turned on his heel, and started jogging down the right side. Baljeet watched with a sinking heart as the light grew fainter and fainter and Django vanished from his view altogether. He delayed for a few more seconds at the fork. A bird above tittered, circling closer and closer overhead. While he was looking up, something cold slithered past his ankles. He gasped, recoiled, and took off running for the left field.

"GIIIIIIIIINGEEEEEEEEEER? WHERE AAAAAAAREEEE YOUUUUUUUU?"

_**ttttttttttttttt**_

Isabella marched on with her hands balled at her sides. Three emotions continued to battle for dominancy within her: fury at her current search partner, vexation with the course of her Friday night, and numbing concern for her best friend.

She didn't allow thoughts to obstruct her movements as she randomly switched from one maze walkway to the next. Each path she blindly took gave her the heavy impression that she was going farther and farther away from her absent friend, but she pressed on.

Buford waved the white beam of light from one wall of grains to the next, occasionally flashing the sky. It was pointless, and it irritated her.

"Keep it on the ground, will you? I'm about to fall and break my nose."

He grunted in return and shone the flashlight onto her shoes. Somewhere else in the maze, Baljeet's wail could be heard. She sighed and kept moving forward.

The current row was horizontally widened and vertically enclosed. This presented more breathing room and less depth perception. The corn hung on its ends over the edges like a tunnel. Isabella constantly picked bits of the plants out of her hair.

"Once again, this is all your fault."

"My fault? How is this _my_ fault?"

She avoided an indent in the ground and hopped straight into another low corn leaf. It slapped her neck.

"Don't be dumb. You know you're to blame for this. None of us even _wanted_ to participate in your "relive the childhood" outing, and now Ginger's either kidnapped, unconscious, or deaf, given that she can't seem to HEAR OUR SCREAMS." She raised her hands up to the sky for a moment, listening, hoping against hope for a snarky reply from the Asian, despite her statement.

"So 'cause _I_ wanted to spend the last night of autumn in a corn field, _I'm_ at fault."

She turned sharply to a diagonal row, and the stalks grew closer to the sides. "Correction. You're at fault _because_ Ginger's disappeared. Am I right?"

Buford spoke flatly. "Yeah. Ya caught me. Ginger's asleep in my back pocket."

She ignored him and went on. Right, left, right. Straight, straight, straight. Duck, shove, narrowly avoid corn in the face. Right, left. Left. Straight.

The last words the girl had spoken before vanishing replayed in her mind. _Maybe they're the dead ones._ Isabella shivered.

"Wait." Buford clicked off the flashlight. "Stop."

She complied and cocked her head to the side. Nothing could be heard.

"What?"

He waved a beefy hand in her face, shaking his head. She frowned in disgust and stepped back, trying her best to make out any sounds in the area. There was naught but a few volant black fowls, turning around and around in circles in the seemingly moonless sky above. Her eyebrows furrowed. Was he being delusional? Deceptive?

"Buford, you're hearing thi"-

A hand shot out underfoot from the corn and grabbed her ankle.

Someone snickered, and she screamed.

_**ttttttttttttttt**_

Phineas stopped in his tracks and raised his eyebrows. "Did you hear that?" He turned his face right and left, patting his brother's hand in signal. "Sounded an awful lot like…"

He chose not to finish. The boys turned one hundred eighty degrees on the path and sprinted in the direction of the brief noise.

Nearly on an impossible level, their minds concurred which twists and turns they'd taken the first time around, and they flew through the curves and bends of the maze, the balloon strings tied around their wrists.

The American teen could both feel and hear the resonating of his own heart, something he'd read about it but never actually experienced. As the corn stalks whizzed by faster and faster, his head pounding, his blood pumping, he realized just how swiftly they were darting through the field. The adrenaline helped him see much more easily in the dark, and he effortlessly waved looming stalks away from his face.

The brothers never slowed, not even once they'd reached the old fork and lost liaison with the female voice. Phineas just kept running, Ferb in tow. He listened to the sound of his own ragged breaths as his feet continued apace, his hands pushing in front for impediments. The same word kept playing in his head. It was the only logical thought that his mind could form. Over and over and over.

_Isabella._

Someone laughed out loud, and a growl followed. His heart leaped into his throat. He turned another sharp corner, and then another, and suddenly he was standing in the center of a startling light. It was such a contrast to his previously dim surroundings that he was blinded.

He blinked several times, in pure shock. After a disturbing stillness, he heard an all-too-familiar voice greet him in casual informality.

"Dude. You look like a deer caught in headlights."

As his vision improved, he was able to make out Django's face under the high beams. The three flashlights were mercifully taken away from his eyes, and he relaxed and looked around. He then grinned in immense relief.

"Isabella! Ginger! You guys are okay!"

So cheerful was he to verify the girls were safe and sound that it at first completely skipped his mind to take in their expressions. Ferb, however, was much more observant on that part, and he nudged his brother's shoulder.

Phineas did a double take once he was aware. Ginger had a sort of guilty smirk playing on her lips. She had placed quite a distance between herself and Isabella. Who, on the other hand, looked a bit angry. No…Phineas twitched. She didn't look "a bit" angry.

She looked royally ticked.

Their entire group had found the corner and were now standing around warily. Isabella's chest was expanded and deflating through her temper. Ginger took a step back and giggled nervously.

"Sooo…that whole hide-and-seek thing…consider it my senior prank for the year?"

The boys had to think fast.

Before hair pulling and nail chipping could ensue, Django had his arms tightly around Isabella. He could barely keep her in place; her arms flailed and her feet kicked. Baljeet grabbed Ginger protectively and spun her away from the other girl. Buford stood behind them, watching the scene play out, and laughed so loudly that all the crows in a half-mile radius bolted from their perch.

Phineas observed in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. So Ginger had never been in danger? And Isabella's scream _wasn't_ a perilous one? He placed a hand on his chest and exhaled. So _this_ was what his sister meant everyday by nearly having a heart attack. The understanding of such a concept finally slapped him in the face. He flushed, feeling embarrassed and peccant. It sure didn't feel good to know that he was the constant cause of such a physical wear-out. He'd have to apologize later…

"Isabella, can you chill already?" Django yelped. "It's not a big deal!"

"NOT a big deal?" the young woman struggled against him. "NOT a big DEAL? I was frightened half to DEATH!"

"Oh, so it's okay for _you_ to make me believe that Gretchen _died_ in the bathroom on my birthday, but it's not okay for _me_ to twist your leg in a corn field?" Ginger shot back at her.

Isabella took in deep breaths. The argument was no longer working in her favor. "Shut _up_. That was different."

Buford slapped his hands together, threw back his head, and cachinnated even longer, his belly shaking from the hard laughter. Django released Isabella, who placed a palm to her forehead. Baljeet slowly unwrapped himself away from Ginger's body. She sighed as a result.

"Let's just get out of here," Isabella dictated angrily. "I'm not in the mood for any more games."

The gang exchanged uncertain looks. Buford sobered instantaneously.

"NOOO! We've only been in here for an _hour_! That ain't fair, man, it just ain't fair!" He suddenly switched his tone to accusatory. "Why do ya always have to be so _selfish_?"

Isabella's head shook slowly in disbelief, her teeth down on her lip. Hard. She might say something she would later on regret if she didn't contain her self-control. For a split second, she almost wished that Django could hold her down again.

"That-that is just ridiculous. _You're_ the guy forcing people who don't even hang _out_ anymore to play in a farm in the middle of nowhere." Before the larger boy could protest, she turned on her heel and strode off.

"Um, guys?" Baljeet peeped.

"Hey…HEY!" Buford yelled after her. "YOU TOOK MY FLASHLIGHT!"

"OH, SO NOW YOU NEED IT!" Isabella yelled back, her light going fainter.

"Guys?" The Indian tried again, reusing the flashlight-beneath-chin method to draw emphasis to his face.

"She is _such_ a drama queen," Ginger had tugged on Phineas's sleeve, he had bent down compliantly, and she now whispered in his ear, "and a party pooper. Don't you agree?"

"Uh…" was his intelligent reply.

"IF YOU GET LOST, ISABELLA, DON'T COME CRYIN' TO US!"

"YOU KNOW WHAT, BUFORD? YOU KNOW WHAT?" Her voice grew more and more distant. "I HOPE I DO WIND UP LOST AND THEN _DIE_ WITH THE CROWS FEEDING ON MY PEELING SKIN SO THAT_YOU_ CAN FEEL THE GUILT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!"

"_Guys?_" Baljeet reiterated, adding volume to his voice.

"I so could have avoided all of this if I'd just focused on the contest," Django bewailed. He turned to Ferb, who never answered. "I could have at least made the ninth entry, right? _Please_ tell me my work is worth at least the ninth entry."

Baljeet lost it.

"_ACK_! KRIPYA SHOR MAT MACHAAYIYE!"

No one spoke for the longest time. Ferb lifted up his finger and opened his mouth, but then lowered and closed them again. Django, whose hand was on the Brit's shoulder, and Ginger, whose hand was on Phineas's shoulder, and Phineas, who had stooped to the petite woman's level with his hands on his knees, all froze with their eyes locked on their friend.

A bird squawked elsewhere.

"Um,"-Isabella suddenly sounded nearby once more-"did Baljeet just speak in _Hindi_?"

Her footsteps were heard thumping against the farm ground, and her flashlight flickered on as she came back into view. They all turned to the Indian for silent confirmation. His eyes were wild, and he was holding the front of his pants. As if that wasn't apparent enough, he said meekly:

"I kind of need to go."

Buford's mouth twitched. "We're in a maze. Can't ya _hold_ it?"

"It is not a perdurable activity!"

"Thanks for letting us know," Isabella rolled her eyes.

"There were porta-potties back at the entrance, man," Django shook his head. "Why didn't you just relieve yourself at the time? We could have waited."

"Yes, but I did not need to _go_ then!" the tan boy objected. He then blushed with a start. "Ohhh, dear. Oh…oh." He jiggled up and down.

Everyone let out different variations of a moan in response, ranging from concern to disgust. "Oh, Baljeet, no…" "You're an idiot, dude." "Oh my gosh, go in the stalks, go in the stalks!" "Stay _away_ from me."

"My deepest apologies," he squeaked. Everyone took a five-step departure from the offender and flashed their lights far away from him. He hung his head in shame.

"Okay," Isabella's voice had lost its haughtiness and only held imploration. "Now can we _please_ get out of here? Please?"

Buford slumped in surrender. "Fine." Realization flashed in his eyes as he assessed his past. There was one thing he was not willing to admit defeat to. He raised a hand and lifted his pitch, making everyone halt.

"_But not from the way we came!"_

"Seriously?" Ginger crossed her arms across her chest and stifled a shudder. She wished she'd brought a thicker jacket, or perhaps a coat. "Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose of cutting through the corn and getting the heck out of here?"

The taller boy shook his head vigorously. "Uh-uh. No way. We ain't gonna do this without a compromise. You all seriously owe me."

"And you don't owe _us_?" Isabella said incredulously, gesturing to a subdued Indian in the background. "Baljeet…PEED!"

"Come on, guys," he raised his arms in plea toward the rest of the group, ignoring her. "Let's just do this _one_ last thing. Let's find our way out through the exit. Retracin' our steps and leavin' through the entrance; it's just…cheatin'."

"Says the guy who's only graduating from high school in the spring _because_ he cheated," she mumbled.

He shot her a dark look that she couldn't see in the moonless gloom.

After ten superfluous minutes of debate, the gang agreed in reluctance to adhere to the compromise. Isabella and Baljeet hung near the back of the parade; neither were on their unofficial leader's good side for the time being, which was a feeling mutually received.

And so their journey went on, more or less in progress.

_**ttttttttttttttt**_

"I say we go left."

"I say we go right."

"Ugh. We've _discussed_ this."

"Weren't we just in this row?"

"No, stupid, this is a different row."

"How would _you_ know?"

"She's right. How _would_ you know?"

"They all look the same, man."

"Yeah, and you're so confident yourself."

"There is a difference between confidence and arrogance."

"Shut up, Baljeet!"

"I'm just saying…"

"I hate this, I really do."

The gang continued to stand, undecided, at the two wide open columns before them. Thirty additional minutes had officially confirmed their position: they were absolutely and utterly lost.

"Oh, for the love of dirt…" Isabella took charge and stepped forward in the right direction. Everyone followed, too tired for indecencies. They walked in silence. Even the birds were keeping quiet.

It was at that moment that Ferb chose to speak.

"Care for a joke?"

Isabella jumped, and then quickly hoped they hadn't noticed. She cleared her throat and spoke as nonchalantly as she could. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

In a deep, punctuated voice that implied no joviality, he quipped, "A man is walking in a corn field in the dead of night. What would one call him?"

He then waited. The teens pushed plants out of their way as they delved deeper into the maze. No one made a sound, anticipating his illation with slight anxiety. They'd since forgotten that it had been a joke in the first place. When he gravely concluded the answer, they froze in confusion.

"A stalker."

Ginger finally giggled. "Oh, haha. I get it."

Isabella felt stupid for not having understood it immediately. "Oh, wow. Wow. _That_ was dumb."

"Thanks, Ferb," Buford grinned into his light.

Baljeet laughed. A minor pop was heard. "Oh, my! What an appropriate"-

"NOOOOOOO!"

Everyone dropped their flashlights in downright horror. Django then picked his back up and flashed the beam into Phineas's face. The young man was kneeling on the ground, four feet away. They rapidly encircled him, watching with prompt concern. For there were tears, silently but openly, streaming down his triangular face.

"Phin…Phineas?" Isabella hesitantly whispered.

He looked up with suffered eyes. The group, astonished, viewed his opened hands. The broken remains of violet latex was strewn across his lap. His lips quivered. His voice was so low that it almost came unheard.

"I...I…I popped the baby."

Everyone groaned.

"Oh, that," the girl said flatly.

To her slight surprise, he stood up briskly and wiped his hands on his pant pockets. He then emphatically bounced his leg up and down as he repeated his revelation, exposing frustration.

_"_I POPPED the _baby_!"

She struggled with a reply, ending it to portray more as a question than a consolation. "Um…it was an accident?"

"Yeah, dude," Buford shrugged. "That was your fifth one, right? You can just make another one."

The redhead burst into another round of fresh tears and began to sputter. "B-but, I-I-I-I, I really _liked_ this one!"

They all inwardly sighed. The Brit placed a hand on his shoulder to pacify him.

"Alright. We won't go on until we've held a funeral for, erm…"

"Phineas Junior the Fifth," his brother sniffled.

"Precisely what I meant."

Buford pulled at his hair. "Okay. Fine. Hold a funeral for your stupid baby. THEN can we find the exit?"

"And get out of here?" Ginger added.

"And reach a bathroom?" Baljeet included bashfully.

"And forget any of this ever happened?" Django begged wearily.

Their inputs were met with glowering eyes from the stepbrothers and the Mexican-Jewish girl.

_**ttttttttttttttt**_

Buford had to admit to himself that overall, the night hadn't been half bad. Of course, minus the fact that Ginger tricked them, Baljeet urinated in his pants, and they'd just conducted a memorial service for a balloon, it had been-dare he think it-kind of _fun._ And sentimental. And all those mushy-gushy feelings that he'd rather die than express aloud.

And now, at one o' clock in the morning, they had finally found the entrance. Not exit. Oh, mustard, no. They'd long given up on such a hope. And as they barely noticed the completely stoned admittance college student and passed by the table to drop off their flashlights, Buford's heart pumped with newfound energy. If he remembered correctly, Irving had dropped off that high-voltage camera of his at the house that morning. Now that they were about to rendezvous to his house to recharge, he looked on with eagerness toward the many more kid moments they'd accomplish and capture in permanent photo shots. Cards, dance/karaoke videos, and game after game after game of Twister.

He sighed contentedly as they approached the single, blue van in the isolated parking lot. He'd been right all along. This had all been worth it.

The gang, exhausted but happy, quickened their pace as they moved toward the vehicle. They then bounced around Buford as he confidently buried his hand into his pocket to retrieve his keys.

But his smile vanished.

"Oh no," Isabella hissed. "Don't you dare even _say_ it."

"Okay..." the larger boy cracked his knuckles nervously, fidgeting. "I won't say it."

He didn't have to. Phineas, Ferb, Baljeet, Django, Isabella, and Ginger all peered their faces into the driver's window. There, located in the seat, were the keys exactly where they'd been thrown. It was spread under the wheel, in their nearly impossible view, peacefully and innocently.

The six high-schoolers turned robotically toward their chauffer. Each look of fury reflected the others'. Django slowly opened his mouth, speaking for all of them.

"_Run_."


End file.
